


Grumpy Fuckers' Coffee Shop

by travellinghopefully



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: AU, Coffee, Domestic, F/M, Family, Fluff, Swearing, coffee shop AU, second life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Misswinterseat sent me a pic (its a real cafe in Wales) "retired Malcolm" - that was the prompt!</p>
<p>So, this is the first chapter - happy, fluffy, domestic Malcolm - no angst at all....none</p>
<p>This is his morning at home - more chapters to follow</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grumpy Fuckers' Coffee Shop

Thoughts of burrowing deeper into the blankets entwining himself more closely with his wife, marvelling that this was what his life was now. He fought that urge, sliding out from under the covers without waking her, holding back from pressing himself against her, kissing any exposed skin, losing himself in her. Keeping his sighs to himself he peered over the edge of the cot at his son, soundly sleeping. Lost as always in awe and wonder at the perfection of his tiny balled fists the impossibly red hair. He kissed him, lightly, resisting waking him, time enough for more cuddles, more kisses, later.

Side stepping the creaking floorboards, he tiptoed into his daughter’s room, scooping her into his arms, burying his nose in her sleep scented hair. Keeping the blankie wrapped round her, her rabbit held firmly in her grasp, he headed down the stairs, dodging the accumulated daily detritus and debris.

His colleagues, his former colleagues wouldn’t recognise him, smiling, brow unfurrowed , unhurried, patient, calm and at peace – his mornings sacrosanct, someone to manage and open the shop, he would arrive sometime, his family and their needs, his time with them always first. Suits long gone, happy in ratty pyjama bottoms and an ancient t-shirt, faded beyond any thought of legibility. Comfort his primary concern, that and being able to throw anything in the washer, his son still at the glorious stage of throwing up over him every day, if he was lucky, only throwing up over him. He chuckled, yeah, anyone who saw him now...

The scents of baking surrounded them, his little one stirred in his arms and he repositioned her, murmuring endearments to her. Their special time, her and him, always her father’s daughter, an early riser, just like him, fierce, implacable, outrageously precocious, this time, their time, before his wife woke, before his son stirred. Time for shared breakfast, stories, games. 

Coming off the final step, all his weight descended on a stray piece of Lego. He kept all the words in his head, holding his daughter as he hopped and sat heavily on the step, staring incredulously at his foot, marvelling as always at the astonishing level of pain and that a piece had once again escaped the nightly clean up. One of the cats opened one eye, and stared at him. Was the fucker smirking? Aye that would be it, the nocturnal ninjas booby trapping the house for their own mischievous Machiavellian purposes. 

 

Brushing teeth could wait, tackling the tangled mane of her hair could wait, the perfect plaits as always an unholy mess. He gave thanks for her infinite patience with him, her endless forgiveness as he snagged a pull, the rhythm and ritual of the brush soothing both of them, her tales of her day, his stories, nothing existing beyond the bubble of them. That was later, this was now.

Some things were unchanging, some things transported between that life and this. Still balancing her on his hip, he reached for the switch of the coffee machine, checking the water level, checking the beans, relaxing into the whirr, the rind, the hiss. The satisfying routine, the enveloping aroma, beyond compare. Milk warmed in the microwave, long since abandoning the notion that it wasn’t the same as the stove top, a grating of nutmeg, pinch of cinnamon and swirl of honey. Him with his mug, her with hers, holding her close throughout. Settling in the battered armchair, a moments wriggling a favourite story book dragged from the pile, mock outrage that she could possibly want this old thing again. The first, best mouthful of coffee, scalding, black as sin, bitter as everyone had thought his heart and soul. He launched into the tale, all the voices, the scary bits, the soppy bits, the monsters, all of them real for both of them. 

The sounds of movement from above, wee Malc making his disapproval at the concept of the disruption of his kingly slumber with a mighty wail. (His wife had vetoed the notion that their son could have any other name). The cats slumber similarly shattered, the sound of many paws coalescing into the surprise of two dainty, sleek and infinitely smug moggies. Malcolm shook his head, he might as well have welcomed panthers into his life, the noise and chaos they created. Still a topic of contention after 6 years, despite his secret adoration of them and every other aspect of his second life.

He stood, settling his daughter on the chair, wrapping her blankie round her, bowing to her, a courtier to his queen. Breaking a muffin in half, handing part to her, unceremoniously stuffing the other portion in his mouth, chasing it with the remains of his first mug. Not bad, still not the perfect muffin, the quest continued. Memoirs he’d envisaged, memoirs he’d written, writing that built the house they lived in, writing that made their future secure. The cook book a surprise, the offer of tv met with a resounding “fuck off”. He could finally only work as much as he wanted. And he found that, that was very little indeed, any expectation that give it a few months and he’d be bored, he’d be begging, he’d be pleading to return, entirely unfounded. It was they that had gone down on their knees, and he hadn’t laughed, he had been magnanimous. He’d graciously allowed them to consult him, ensuring his fee was sufficiently astronomical, his hours meticulously recorded to sufficiently discourage them from calling too often on his expertise and more importantly his time. He skirted being called on for political punditry, he had never fancied being another Talking Head. His weekly column endlessly amused him, the skill for imaginative invective never deserting him. The money he commanded, the extent of his syndication he merely found funny.

He conveniently neglected to attend any function any formality, nothing for publicity, even if it was his own books. Sunday lunch with friends, with family was something else entirely. He was expansive, he was generous and his crackling, legendary, spoken of in hushed tones, and no he fucking wasn’t going to tell you how it was fucking perfect every time.

No-one who’d known him would recognise him now, hand running through shaggy hair, curls gone wild for no other reason than his wife liked to run her hands through too. No-one saw him, his head resting on her knee, passing evenings just like that . Chastising him each time he proposed that it needed to be shorn, each knowing that there was nothing he could think of that he wouldn’t do for her.

Bacon in the pan, waffle mix in the machine. He couldn’t think who’d given him the fucking thing, he cursed it and then found how much his wife loved them, his daughter loved them and old curmudgeon that he was, he loved the crisp, fluffy, fucking sweetness too. Fuck any idea that this was something only for the weekends, it was only cleaning the fucking thing that stopped him making them every day. He amazed himself how much joy he could find in pancakes, squeezing juice, concocting the perfect fucking smoothie, fuck him, he was a fucking domestic God. That was still true when the patio doors were open and his daughter laughing as he waved a tea towel trying to get the fucking smoke detector to stop shrieking – he glared at the toast, a perfect even brown, not a hint of carbon and still the cacophony. Handing him his son, his wife kissed him warmly, thanking him for the second alarm. He accepted any amount of teasing if it continued to be accompanied by an equal amount of kissing. He kept the minimum of his mind on the breakfast, giving everything else to his wife and children, his greatest delight to lavish them with his love. He never begrudged that she loved what she did, the time she spent away from home, his role to support, to help, to love, to encourage. All of which being entirely true didn’t mean he wasn’t above celebrating every moment of her maternity leave, celebrating their time ahead together. He refused to acknowledge he was infinitely more concerned about the prospect of is daughter starting school than she was and trying to suppress he was sure the entirely selfish desire to fill the house with children until it burst. Their house already the designated venue for sleep overs and parties between their extended families and friends. He didn’t scowl at mess or litter or disorder. Some of the furniture was good, but if it acquired a splodge of paint, chocolate finger prints or suspect paw prints, he was secretly glad because that made this home. Too long, far, far too long, that hadn’t been a word he could use. 

His wife kissed him out of what she called his thinking stare – fancy, a man thinking, it didn’t look right – looking so serious every time she said it, always making him laugh, remembering the first time being affronted, having his intelligence challenged, insulted piqued. He’d loved that and her from the first moment, no bullshit at all ever – she had deflated his brittle shell in an instant, somehow on the inside, close against his heart. She knew him for the soppy sentimental romantic he really was, all the little gestures the shared moments the accumulation of everything precious into their lives together, ultimately expressed in their children. Two clever fuckers may have been punched out when they thought they could pass comment on him being a dad at his age and did they do zimmer frame football? Secure in his wife’s love and adoration, two more had met the same fate for implications regarding her fidelity and his potency. The former punches from him, the latter from her.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I truly love feedback
> 
> Hated this - please tell me
> 
> Loved this - please tell me
> 
> Really loved this - please share
> 
> No wips left behind (looks at pile - there, there it'll be ok)


End file.
